


How To Discuss A Friend's Halitosis In Mixed Company

by CavalierConvoy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavalierConvoy/pseuds/CavalierConvoy
Summary: While Krok and Crankcase are unloading contraband they scavanged from Tenbris VII on a black market planet, Fulcrum is in charge, but left facing his largest challenge yet: giving Grimlock a bath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [galacticproblems](http://galacticproblems.tumblr.com/) for the 2016 [Transformers Secret Santa Exchange](http://tformers-secret-santa.tumblr.com/); they requested Misfire and Fulcrum doing something cute (SFW).
> 
> Sure. I can do SFW. Yeah. *fingers crossed.*
> 
> ALSO!!! I forgot to say this the first time, but Cogs of Combat and the Galactic Game Network created by [Enfilade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/) and I tend to borrow her clothes liberally.

It wasn’t unusual for Fulcrum to pull a double on the Weak Anthropic Principle’s primary board during a trade. After the debacle that almost got them arrested by the new Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord (though Fulcrum had doubted the legality of “Duly Appointed”, as Tyrest himself had gone off his rocker prior to Fortress Maximus — what kind of name is that? — stepping up to be the new sheriff in the Galactic Arm, but that was neither here nor there and Fulcrum, finding his attention drifting from his own duty, pulled himself back to the present) Krok was keen on ditching what they had hastily salvaged from Tenbris VII on their escape out.  
  


Krok and Crankcase had gone alone to the bazaar world of Reicere (Bazaar as in “shopping stalls”, not bizarre as in “strange”, Krok had stressed, though according to Misfire, Reicere, being populated by the quirky fringe of Cybertronian society and galactic merchants, fit both words well), leaving Fulcrum in charge of the ship. They had promised to be back by third ship’s shift.  
  


Two thirds had come and gone, leaving Fulcrum staring at a screen depicting the only local channel he could tune into in attempt to stave off boredom: Cheesecake’s Sensuous Port of Wonders. Failing miserably — whether the title character was a Cybertronian augmented to mimic mammalian features, or a facsimile built by an organic race, either way, she wasn’t keeping the K-Class’s interest — Fulcrum turned off the monitor, checked messages to make certain Krok or Crankcase didn’t need an immediate extraction, and leaned back in his chair, shuttering his optics.  
  


Barely fifty clicks had passed before a pungent stench wafted across his olfactory senses. With a grimace, Fulcrum backed away from the offending odour, nearly falling out of his chair.  
  


Grimlock, in his reptilian mode, stood over him, his razor-sharp dentae gleaming between pieces of what could have been organic material.  
  


“We need to talk about your oral hygiene,” Fulcrum grumbled, correcting himself.  
  


Grimlock snorted, and another malodorous explosion across Fulcrum’s face, just as heavy footfalls clamoured onto the bridge.  
  


“There you are, Grim!” Misfire exclaimed. “Look, I know Spinister can be a blockhead, but just because he was shouting doesn’t mean he’s angry. C’mon, let’s get you back in the washracks.”  
  


Well, little victories. “What did he get into?” Fulcrum asked, spinning to face the flyer. Grimlock made a noise that could have been a chuckle.  
  


“Funny story!” Misfire clapped his hands. “We were out in the market looking for snacks — “  
  


“ — of course you were — “  
  


“— and we were accosted by some Skuzzazoid bounty hunters.”  
  


“Amazing.”  
  


“You’d think they’d know better than to pick on two Decepticons and a Dynobot.”  
  


“No, that you used ‘accosted’ correctly.”  
  


“Me grammar good, yes? So! there’s these six Skuzzazoids, shouting at us and obviously wanting our boy here.”  
  


“Losers,” Grimlock chortled.  
  


“Anyway, you can guess how things went from there.”  
  


Comprehension struck Fulcrum, and he nodded. “You ate them, didn’t you, Grim?”  
  


Grimlock responded by nonchalantly picking material out between his teeth with a talon.  
  


“He didn’t eat them,” Misfire corrected. “By then, the local authorities came by, but because the Skuzzazoids were in fact wanted by the Galactic Council, we got the bounty.”  
  


“Explains why I didn’t get a call to bail your aft out of impound.”  
  


“So we restocked on snacks and entertainment and came back to the ship. And now we need to get Skuzzazoid smell off of Grimlock, so back to the washracks you go.”  
  


Grimlock tossed his head at the indignation, but complied, lumbering off the bridge.  
  


“So how much left of the bounty did you keep for ship’s coffers?” Fulcrum questioned.  
  


Misfire stared at him, a vacant, clueless expression.  
  


“You did save some shannix for the operation cost of the ship, right?” Fulcrum punctuated each word.  
  


The magenta and black flyer’s face lit up. “Hey! I got you something while we were out!”  
  


“Brilliant segue; let’s not tell Krok or Crankcase you blew a bounty on snacks.”  
  


“And entertainment!”  
  


“The new _Cogs of Combat_ expansion with subscription to the Galactic Game Network, right?”  
  


Now Misfire was crestfallen. “Aw, you spoilt the surprise!”  
  


Fulcrum rolled his optics to the ceiling. “Yep, won’t be bringing this up to the others.”  
  


“So, what do you say? You, me, gratuitous amounts of pixelated carnage and violence and an aft-tonne of energon goodies?” Misfire pointed both index fingers at the tan K-Class. “C’mon, you know you wanna.”  
  


Fulcrum gestured to the pilot’s board and settling on after a couple of false starts: “I’m running support for Krok and Crankcase! I can’t blow them off!”  
  


Misfire made a “pfft!” sound. “We can have Spinister do it. Likely those two found some of Krok’s buddies and they’re all face down in a pub. Besides, he’s no fun when we play. He doesn’t understand the concept of friendly fire.”  
  


“You don’t understand the concept of friendly fire!”  
  


“Why am I all wet?!” Spinister shouted, echoing along the outside corridor.  
  


“Because you’re washing a Dynobot!” Misfire retorted. “Get his teeth! Fulcrum says his breath stinks!”  
  


“I am going nowhere near his teeth! They’re sharp and scary and I’m still wet!”  
  


“Then come up here, relieve Fulcrum and we’ll finish Grim’s bath!” Misfire shook his head, meeting Fulcrum’s exasperated glare. “Honestly, simple solution, everyone’s happy.”  
  


“Everyone.” Fulcrum crossed his arms over his chest.  
  


Misfire leaned forward, grinning broadly. “Everyone.”  
  


“Grimlock got me wet,” Spinister groused, storming past the two other Decepticons. Shaking out his arm, splattering fluid on the smaller flyer, he claimed the seat recently vacated by Fulcrum. “When’s Krok and Crankcase coming home? I’m bored!” Tapping the console, the sometimes-surgeon brought up the local channel listing and perked up. “Ooooh! Cheesecake’s Port of Something or other. That sounds interesting.”  
  


“Just keep an optic on the messages if they need a quick extraction!” Fulcrum ordered as Misfire grabbed the technician by the arm. “You call me straight away, okay? Spinister, what did I say?”  
  


“Contact you if Krok and Crankcase calls for an extraction. Gotcha.” For emphasis, Spinister flashed a thumb’s up as the titular character of the programme graced the screen with a flamboyant bounce.  
  


“So if they call within the next ten cycles, we’re good. C’mon, loser, we got a Dynobot to clean up!” Now Misfire, the larger mech, used his leverage to yank Fulcrum into the corridor and lead him down the hall to the washracks, where Grimlock stuck his head out of the door upon their approach.  
  


“How do you see this as fun?” Fulcrum demanded; Misfire grinned widely, patting Grimlock on the snout as he squeezed by.  
  


Grimlock took the opportunity to huff at Fulcrum, causing the K-class to cry out in disgust.  
  


The chore was as bad as Fulcrum feared: Misfire was doing little to rein in a stubborn Dynobot. Fulcrum stood ramrod straight, soaked in solvent, as Misfire hosed down everything in the washracks except Grimlock, whose optics betrayed a glint of intelligence in his amusement.  
  


“You know,” Fulcrum hedged his bet, “the sooner we get Grimlock clean, the sooner we can play _Cogs of Combat_.”  
  


The flyer froze in place, contemplating the options, before whipping the spray wand in a broad stroke across the room. “Great! Do me a favour and hold Grimlock’s mouth open so I can hose it down.”  
  


Neither Fulcrum nor Grimlock thought well of that plan, apparent by their dry glare at Misfire. Grimlock took the suggestion a step further by reverting to root mode, grabbing the wand from Misfire and snapping it in twain, before storming out of the racks.  
  


“Remember to brush your teeth!” Misfire called out after him. Clapping his hands together, the flyer regarded his remaining companion. “Okay, that’s done, now it’s time to slaughter your sorry aft.”  
  


“Can we at least dry off first?” Fulcrum demanded to deaf audio receptors as Misfire dragged him into the corridor.  
  


Misfire’s hab was somewhere north of a city dump: Fulcrum was able to locate a marginally clear chamois to dry off as Misfire, still oblivious to his damps state, rummaged through the boxes laden with energy drinks and snacks. Excavating a game box, he tossed it to Fulcrum, grabbing the remote to his vidscreen, yammering on about the reviews his group on the Big Conversation of the latest expansion, including downloadable content.  
  


The game meant little to Fulcrum, but seeing Misfire in his excitable state, broad smile, bright optics, as the flyer hooked up the cobbled gaming console they had scavenged together on board a derelict pleasure yacht — well, derelict once they had boarded, scaring away the crew in the process — on one of their first excursions. There had been plenty of chances to get an upgraded console, but Misfire insisted on keeping this particular one, with its electrical-taped cables, propped at an angle so that the fan would run properly.  
  


“All right!” Misfire flopped onto spot next to Fulcrum, handing him a controller as the introduction music blared through the salvaged speakers. “Let’s get this party started!”  
  


And, with that, the crash hit, and Misfire slumped against Fulcrum’s shoulder.  
  


Fulcrum knew this would happen. It always did. Any self-respecting Decepticon would leave at that point.  
  


Fulcrum had stopped respecting himself the moment Misfire had tried to steal his fuel pump.  
  


“Take a nap,” he suggested, bringing his arm around for the flyer’s shoulders. “It’ll be here when you wake up.”  
  


“You too, yeah?” Misfire demanded sleepily.  
  


A sigh, but not one of exasperation. “Yep. I’ll be here too.”  
  


“Then I’ll kick your aft.”  
  


“Yes. Yes you will.”  
  


With that, Misfire shuddered his optics.  
  


Fulcrum decided to try and catch some rest too, but back on the bridge, Spinister broke into a loud argument with his hand, travelling through the ventilation system and echoing within the ship.


End file.
